The Unspoken

By Don Zelma

With retirement looming, fifty-nine year old pastor Dan Amos has more questions than he began with. The world has changed. And then there is Jay. Was his son's bike accident really suicide? Ten years may have passed, but peace still eludes him. And all he has left are photos of a twenty-two year old son he didn't know, dressed in leather; tattooed and angry; mirroring the two young men pictured with him – Ned and Joe: unwelcome at the funeral, but now, perhaps, the only lead in finding out what really happened to Jay. Dan is determined to seek them out, even if it marks a descent into their world.

Ned is a dreamer with an unlovable face, unkempt pony tail and intimidating tattoos. He is out of shape and angry at a pedestrian life that hasn't met his expectations. He has tried every fad to quench his thirst for success and it is his wife who bears the brunt of his frustration. Joe is taller, better looking and less threatening than Ned and, like Ned, has his own secrets. He is living life the only way he knows: filling his nights with rum and cokes and the quest for a bed partner. Both men maintain that there is no secret to Jay's death, and Dan is met with hostility when he originally confronts them. But when their lives begin to change it is not long before they are the ones seeking Dan out for support and guidance. What ensues bridges the gap between the two worlds with friendship and camaraderie, as Dan supports Joe through his difficult new relationship and tries to steer Ned away from violence and frustration.

As the friendships develop Dan feels that he is getting closer and closer to Jay. His son had been experimenting, making up for lost time, conflicted by a pure upbringing and a life he wanted to pursue. Dan has built up the idea of suicide to make some sense of it all, but there is no sense to be made.

It is more than a year later, when Dan receives some devastating news, that the relationships are rekindled. Ned and Joe support him into an ambulance and it is clear that they have become his sons. Dan mimics Ned and Joe; being them; being Jay; shouting at the staff and at a life that he still doesn't understand.

Dan begs for more time, to be able to understand and help people, and is told that there is nothing he can do; that the deepest wounds in life are always nursed alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Zelma
• Release date: Jun 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476371504

Don Zelma

I am a foreign news video producer. At age twenty-four, I left Australia on a journey, spending much of my life reporting war and civil strife. I've documented every major conflict since then, from Bosnia, Chechnya and Rwanda, through to today's Arab Spring. Interestingly, I found it wasn't the appalling events seen in war or, unfortunately, the death of colleagues that tormented me most, but matters of the heart. In many intimate moments I learnt things I later didn't want to know. This is where the real stories were – pillow talk and the profound two-o'clock-in-the-morning conversations with friends. The tragic fact is my fictional story is a watered-down version of the truth, because the truth was unbearable to write. Feel free to contact me with your thoughts on [e-mail].

Book preview

BOOK ONE

Introduction

I remember, whenever I looked out the window, I always saw falling ash. But it didn’t seem unusual then. Mum used to say, when the cane farmers burnt their fields, it was good for our garden, but you always had to get the sheets off the line when you saw it begin. The ash fell mostly between June and November, sometimes while we were at school, but mostly at twilight before dinner.

Looking back, it was a good town. It was quiet and safe and from our veranda we could see the wide chocolate river (as we called it) and field after field of lush green sugar cane all the way to the horizon. You could catch salt-water mud crabs in the mangroves not far from the house. It was a good childhood and we were told to consider ourselves lucky.

In such a town it seemed anything could happen. And it could happen especially to us because we were different – religious Christians. I had a strict pastor father and a quietly-spoken mother who was the compromising voice behind her man. We had a screening, six-foot high hibiscus plants that ran the full circumference of our property and I remember, as a child, thinking it shielded us from what was outside. According to my father, the town had lost its way, but in our house love ruled and growing up was safe. Nothing was going to touch us. Only time. Time got hold.

Father died, mother went to a home and my two sisters married and moved away. It was I who was left with the house and the falling cane ash. The screening hibiscus continued to protect me from everything out there. I could poke my head out only when I chose.

I got ordained, found a wife and remained in that old house. And I had a son – an only child. As he approached his teens things began to go badly wrong. He wasn’t walking straight like I had and gradually I saw his morals begin to slip. He made secular friends and fell into a bad crowd. Then, thirteen years ago, he was killed in a single vehicle road accident. I always had my doubts about the circumstances of that crash. I believe he was depressed at that time and I suspected his deliberate hand.

In the period that followed, of course, I grieved and was angry at God that my son had been taken from me. I guess I always will be. But I eventually accepted he was gone and that there was nothing I could do to prevent his loss.

Until three years ago.

I had not seen it coming, but looming retirement had a big effect on me. I discovered, nearing the end, I did not have the answers I had secretly yearned. Namely, what had happened in the secret world of my son’s thoughts? This was the start of a journey, which I later wished I had not embarked upon. I went out searching, befriended my son’s friends, and glimpsed his secret life.

I have now tried my hand at writing to express some of what was inside me. I am not a writer, so I don’t believe it reads like a polished work of fiction. But, in the end, I think I get there, and I feel a lot better now that I have written this book.

The author and his journey are hidden conveniently away behind a pseudonym and fictional main character, but the stories of the men are almost word for word what was told me by my son’s friends. The men are very real.

I remember, during my time with them, that I secretly judged their reactions and feelings, but then I later wondered if their journeys were really so different from anyone else’s. If people are all the same, and these stories are being repeated around the world, there should be a tear or two shed for us.

I am in a hospice now and these thoughts seem less important to me in these my final days. Most important is that I have finished this book and can go forward, in whatever direction Providence may choose, feeling a lot better than I otherwise would have.

My story begins sometime in the autumn of 1994 in my home town in coastal Queensland, a state in Australia. Perhaps it might be of some interest to you.

A.

November, 1997

Chapter One

Dan Amos calmly waited, tapping his fingers on his old oak desk. A beam cracked above his head as the house began to warm in the morning sun. Behind him, the light through the slats split into white lines across the concrete and the tall timber posts holding up the house began casting shadows. He reached out, opened the glass louvers and felt the cold air on his face. The cane ash from the window sill fluttered about the room like burnt newspaper and a Rosella’s bright colours flashed past the glass and he watched it braking and turning like a fighter across the yard. He could see the valley through a gap in the hibiscus over the gate. It was foggy amid the trunks of the nature strip and he glimpsed the river far below with five or six yachts moored on the brown water. Several Queenslander homes stood tall on their posts on the far bank and in a distant field an irrigator’s silver jet sparkled down into the cane and he thought it looked beautiful in the amber light.

He slowly sat in his armchair, his joints stiff from the cold and his mature years, and felt the soft leather under his hands as he rolled the chair in under his desk. The many books of his library gave the office an old paper smell. Mini stood up in her basket and quietly crossed the parquet floor and leapt up onto his lap.

‘Hey… How are you today, Sweetie?’ he said. He felt the soft narrowness of her neck and watched her eyes close on each gentle stroke of his fingers. The Jack Russell placed a paw up onto the desk and peered out of the window. She saw another Rosella on the lawn; she leapt to the floor and ran out the door, barking a little dog bark.

The room fell quiet and Dan patiently waited, staring out the window. The grandfather clock beat gently behind him and he began tapping his pen on the chair to its rhythm. Suddenly, the phone rang and startled him. He donned his reading glasses and reached out across the desk for his appointment book.

Chapter Two

Dan approached his front fence and opened the rusty gate. The air was still and the river flat and the sugar mill’s tall funnel on the distant bend was smoking. He adjusted his straw hat, looked down at the bundle in his hand and ran his thumb across the corners. After thirty years, the neighbourhood seemed comfortable with his leaflet dropping. He was part of the old town, like the red-bricked city hall or the long-established factory that made passenger trains. He stepped out onto the empty street and started crossing the road – his black polished shoes and thick white socks up to his knees were reminders he was different to his neighbours and knew he didn’t fit.

The sound of the cicadas grew louder and he looked up and saw Vince standing in his yard, hosing down his trailer boat. He had been out in the bay and squinted at Dan in the morning light with a sleepy look in his eyes like he’d been daydreaming.

Dan pulled up at his short wooden fence. ‘Morning, Vince,’ he said, waving with his bundle. Vince’s long red beard adorned his chest like a lion’s mane and he smiled and slowly turned off his hose. He wiped his hands on his shorts and began walking toward the clergyman.

‘G’day, Danny,’ he said quietly. His voice came from between his red whiskers and he arrived at his side of the posts.

‘How’d it go this morning?’ Dan said, glancing at the boat.

Vince looked behind him. ‘Oh, all right, actually,’ he said. ‘This time there were shoals of mullet near the beach then the water boiled near the boat and I hooked a few greenbacks.’

Dan looked down at the fence, feeling good about his neighbour. He relaxed and slipped a hand into his pocket.

‘Hey,’ Vince said. ‘I landed a few choppers. Do you wan’ ’em?’ Dan forgot about the leaflets. ‘They’re a good plate size.’

‘Sure, I would,’ Dan said.

‘I’ll bring ’em over this afternoon.’

‘That’s very kind.’

Vince looked down and pointed at the bundle in his hand. ‘Handing out leaflets?’

Dan blinked. ‘Oh… Yeah…’

‘Same ones?’

‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘I had these printed on slick paper.’ He thumbed the top leaflet’s shinny, smooth surface.

‘Yeah, they look pretty smart,’ Vince said.

Dan unfolded a dog ear. ‘Yeah, I like them…’

Vince glanced down at his boots and gently kicked the grass. Dan took his hand from his business shorts and removed his reading glasses from his shirt pocket. ‘Let me give you one,’ he said, ‘and I’ll be on my way.’ He stretched the rubber band away from the bundle and slipped out a leaflet. Vince exhaled quietly and looked back at the boat – it wasn’t his favourite time.

‘Oh, come on, Vince,’ Dan said. He laughed quietly. ‘You’re used to this by now.’

Vince chuckled. ‘Hey, Danny…’ he said affectionately, rubbing his nose. ‘How many times have we done this over the years?’

Dan paused, thinking – it was a good question. ‘Oh… I don’t know...’ he said. He reached out with the leaflet and tapped it absentmindedly against the fence. ‘We’ve know each other a long time.’ He handed Vince the leaflet. It was wishful thinking but you never know.

As expected, Vince didn’t take it and looked down, smiling painfully. Dan tapped the leaflet against Vince’s fingers, dry and wrinkled from the sun and salt water.

‘Come on, Vince,’ he said. ‘It won’t bite.’

Vince waited a moment. ‘You know what, Danny?’ he said. ‘You’re the funniest man I’ve ever met, you know that?’ He smiled and Dan withdrew his hand.

‘You know…’ he said, slipping the leaflet back under the rubber band, ‘I look forward to the day when you finally give it a go.’

A gentle breeze played across the yard. ‘You’ll be waiting a long time,’ Vince said. He laughed; it was a happy laugh and eventually Dan joined in. Vince reached across the palings and slapped his shoulder. ‘Danny,’ he said, ‘you’re an intriguing bloke.’

Dan looked down. ‘I have my moments,’ he said.

Vince stepped back and pointed at the boat. ‘Well… I gotta get back to work.’

Dan smiled. ‘Sure…’

Vince started walking. ‘I’ll bring those fish over in the afternoon,’ he said over his shoulder.

‘That’s very nice of you,’ Dan said.

Vince arrived back at the trailer, picked up the hose and began spraying down the hull. Dan took off his reading glasses and put them into his shirt pocket. He tapped the bundle against the fence and continued on down the footpath. The sun broke from the clouds and brightly lit the street. It was a glorious day and he felt like whistling. It was spring and the mornings were now free of frost and soon he could plant his tomatoes and cucumbers. He drew out a leaflet, slipped it into a letterbox and continued along the footpath, dropping flyers as he went. Eventually, he then came to a street corner and headed down its footpath. Soon, an hour had passed. Having almost finished his route, he looked up and saw Bob and Maria’s Queenslander down towards the shipyard. He crossed the street then reached in through the familiar hole in their tall paling gate. His shoes mounted the stairs to the main second floor and he gently knocked on the fly screen door. A curtain moved and there were whispers. He waited then heard nothing. He shaded his eyes and peered into the old house, down the long hall towards the open kitchen door.

‘Hello?’

His hand removed his straw hat and he fanned his face. He turned and strolled along the deck and looked over the railing. They had a nice garden with lettuce and beetroot along the fence and a banana tree way down the back. His feet wandered back and he squinted in through the fly screen door, seeing a silhouette standing in the kitchen.

‘Hey? Bob...?’ he said.

The figure quickly looked up, as if surprised.

‘So you are home?’ Dan said.

The man waited, still as a mannequin. ‘Hey, Daniel,’ he said forlornly. ‘I thought you’d gone.’

Dan put his hat back on. ‘Oh, you know me, Bob, and I could see the house was open.’

Bob remained still.

‘So… how’s it going?’

Bob glanced back at the kitchen.

‘Oh come on, Bob. Are you going to leave me standing here?’

Bob sighed, dropped his head and began walking towards the front door. The wind blew and feathered the back of Dan’s neck and he looked around and saw the river far away. The tide was up in the mangroves and the mature sugar cane swaying in the breeze. His eyes tracked up the heavily wooded slope to the manse. It was a modest home and had a good-sized mango in the backyard and the hibiscus along the fence was pruned square like a brick wall.

Bob opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony, chewing gum.

‘Hey…’ Dan said.

‘Hey, mate,’ Bob said. He had a set of deep valley-like wrinkles in his forehead.

‘You know,’ Dan said, as if picking up from where they had left off, ‘I’m also a trained counsellor. I have an office at my house.’ He knew it was a little desperate.

‘Is that right?’ Bob said, pretty unimpressed.

Dan smelt the gum’s strawberry scent. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘if you ever need to chat about anything…’ He glanced back at the manse, ‘you know where I am.’

Bob nodded. ‘Sure, Danny,’ he said.

Dan reached out with the leaflet. And, as expected, Bob didn’t take it. The builder folded his arms and leaned back against the doorframe.

‘Danny, Danny, Danny,’ he murmured. He rested his head back against the house and gazed wearily at the awning. A lone car passed and filled the deck with engine noise. ‘OK, Daniel,’ he said, coming off the wall. ‘I’ll flick through it. Will that make ya feel better?’

The concession surprised him and he sought Bob’s eyes. Bob snatched the leaflet, the Christian cross on the cover looking strange in his callused, working-class hands. He opened the leaflet and started reading. Dan watched his eyes carefully and noted that his pupils darted about the page but were never still. It was clear he wasn’t reading and Dan exhaled and looked back at the valley. His spirits sank – if only a little.

The suburb’s tin roofs were shimmering in the midday heat and he imagined cooking Vince’s fish with coriander he had grown in the yard. He yearned to go home to the sanctuary of wife and garden. He glanced back and watched Bob’s muscular fingers close the leaflet.

‘How’s your missus?’ Bob mumbled.

Dan reached out for the leaflet. ‘Oh, she’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ He slipped the leaflet into his pocket. ‘You know,’ he said. ‘I’d prefer you’d actually read it.’

Bob smiled and started chewing. They both knew the visits were just something their friendship had to tolerate.

‘Well,’ Dan said, pointing behind him, ‘as I mentioned – come visit anytime; you know where I am.’ He had suggested it many times over the years.

‘Sure, Danny.’

Dan turned and began walking down the stairs. He stepped onto Bob’s garden path, passed through the tall wooden gate and gently pulled it closed. His feet stopped on the footpath and he waited, staring down at the ground and heard the fly screen upstairs slap closed. This was the job and, yes, it stung. He removed his hat and began fanning his face. Many times it had occurred to him that he had not penetrated the life of one non-believer, not even after a career of trying. They have their world and he had his.

He looked up and gazed at the sky. Once again the sun broke from a cloud and suddenly warmed his face, energising him. He pulled the leaflet from his pocket, smiled and slipped it into Bob’s letterbox then began heading back up the hill towards his Baptist manse.

Chapter Three

Dan walked in under his stilted house and passed along the slat wall into the laundry. He stepped into the office and felt the room was a little humid. Suddenly, three abrupt knocks struck his ceiling and grit sprinkled down onto the desk. Ruth had heard the office door open and had stamped her foot on the dining room floor. Dan opened the glass louvers.

‘Yes!’ he shouted.

Her voice came down from the upstairs window. ‘I went ahead and made dinner,’ she said. ‘The fish is wonderful.’

‘I’m sorry I took so long,’ he said. ‘I’ll cook tomorrow.’

Ruth walked away and he sat in his chair, picking up his newspaper. He heard her footsteps moving around far away at the sink. She turned on the tap and the water pipe slapped in the office wall and he was reminded how much he liked her in the house; how he liked being home.

He took the broom from the corner of the room and struck the ceiling three times. He waited, gazing at the innumerable divots he had caused in the boards over the years. Ruth’s feet came overhead.

‘Yes?’ she called, down from the window.

‘Honey, did my suit arrive from the cleaners?’

Her shoes tapped away across the floor and he sat with the paper. The backdoor squeaked open and her heals came down the external staircase. He looked over his shoulder and saw her slim figure emerge from the dark between the posts. Her bright red hair caught his attention – perhaps she had been at the hairdresser – and she approached carrying his beige suit.

‘Here, darling,’ she said, stepping into the lamplight. She turned and hung the suit on the wall hook. ‘It’s cold down here, Daniel.’

He watched her pick up his cardigan from the bookshelf and fling it towards him. He caught it, smiling. He was lucky to have such a vibrant energy in his life.

‘Are you planning a late night?’ she said, glancing at the grandfather clock.

‘Unfortunately, yes,’ he said, searching for the arms of the cardigan. ‘I have a lot to do.’ He slipped the cardigan on and Ruth walked slowly across the room. She paused then started back, stopping beside the typewriter. Her fingers played with the typewriter keys and she began lightly tapping her shoe on the parquet floor, deep in thought. She slowly sat in the room’s second chair and glanced at him. Her eyes flashed with reflected lamplight. Something was up and he reached out and touched her knee.

‘What’s wrong?’

She smiled pensively and reached out and brushed a lock of hair across his forehead. ‘We’ve done very well,’ she said, resting her hand on his face. He guessed what this was about. ‘I’m looking forward to our new home,’ she said, ‘and our long rest beside the sea. But it will be sad to leave the old house.’

He smiled and looked down. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘soon we’ll be able to take a long big break.’

The room fell quiet and ten seconds passed. Ruth slowly stood, leaned in and gently kissed his forehead.

‘I’ll be upstairs,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll leave dinner in the oven.’

He gazed at her. ‘Sure,’ he said.

Ruth turned and slowly stepped out of the door. She walked through the posts and he watched her, step by step, dissolve into the blackness. He slowly turned to the desk, reached out and picked up his glasses.

‘Oh, and honey…’ she suddenly said.

He glanced back and saw her in the dim light at the paling gate.

‘I should say congratulations, shouldn’t I? Congratulations on your retirement?’

Dan smiled and she began mounting the stairs. He turned and put his glasses on and listened to her feet going up towards the backdoor. Seconds later, he heard the fly screen quietly hissing closed. He pondered, staring at the desk. He listened to the crickets outside in the yard. Something profound had just happened – just now – but he couldn’t identify what. It was an uneasy insecurity he had never experienced and there was an element of quiet panic. It wasn’t bad; everything suddenly just felt… uncertain. He waited, analysing this feeling. He leaned back in his chair and looked at the window.

Lord, he thought… It’s all gone so quickly.

He blinked. For a moment the items in the room seemed surreal, almost unfamiliar to him. He glanced at his hospital pass clipped to the lampshade then noted that his desk had worn where he had been placing his elbows all these years. He looked back at the line of photographs above the door then turned a little further and saw the bookcase. He breathed and studied the photograph of his son. His eyes flicked over Jay’s face, scrutinising every feature, seeking… he didn’t know what, but he was transfixed by his radical looks – an appearance adopted the year or two before his death. He gazed at his sleeveless shirt and the tattoo on his right bicep and the motorbike helmet under his arm. He was not supposed to turn out like that.

Dan remembered the policemen arriving on his front porch and the sound of Ruth’s gut-curdling sobs later in the lounge. He gently bit his lip and slowly shook his head. It was the greatest of all losses – something you just wouldn’t attempt explaining to anyone. Their lives, he knew, had never been the same.

He blinked and suddenly smelt the upstairs dinner. It was time to press ahead. He slowly reached out for the lamp, switched it off and headed towards the doorway, feeling his way through the posts and through the dark.

Chapter Four

Thirteen years earlier, Jay Amos, aged twenty-two, stepped out of the Rabbit Flats roadhouse. It was a bright Saturday morning in late spring and while others his age were bonding with friends, developing into men, he was spending his time alone. Approaching his Kingswood station wagon he heard a loud distant yell from a nearby paddock then saw a shallow ravine and several teenagers queuing at a waterhole. A boy swung out on a rope and Jay watched him with his friends, yearning.

Not far from where he stood, old-style motorcycles were lined up, side by side, in a corner of the car park. Their polished tanks and chromed tailpipes were gleaming in the sun. He noted one in particular – the closest one – its rear wheel as wide as a car tyre and a saucer-sized speedometer on the tank. His feet stepped closer. Suddenly, he heard a distant, urgent banging. He spun around and saw bikers, dressed in denim, standing in a window of the roadhouse. A fat one had knocked his fist on the glass and now, as Jay watched, headed for the door.

The man appeared from the shop, into the sunlight, with a hamburger in his hand.

‘You right, mate?’ he growled from a distance. He had a hefty paunch and an elaborate, snake-like tattoo running all the way down one arm. Jay swallowed and, for reasons unknown, the man started towards him wearing a black bandana around his head.

Jay stepped back, his heart racing. ‘I was just looking,’ he said.

‘Ya didn’t touch anything, did ya?’ the fat man said, pulling up. He was not much older – perhaps twenty-three or four. He glanced at the bikes then, satisfied all was in place, scrutinised Jay. His eyes fell down on his collared shirt and he took a bite of his burger and chewed.

‘You’re a funny-looking kid, aren’t ya?’ he said with his mouth full. He wiped his lips and Jay saw his long, tardy ponytail. ‘So, what are ya up to, little fella?’

‘Nothing…’ Jay said. He pointed over his shoulder at his Kingswood. ‘I was just filling up.’

Another man and a girl stepped out, a little urgently, from the shop door. This second biker was tall, wearing grubby jeans that had clearly never been washed.

‘Ned!’ he shouted.

The fat man looked around. ‘What?’ He seemed annoyed, like a child whose toy had been snatched from him.

‘What’s he want?’

‘He’s just some kid.’

‘Oh, not again, Ned!’ the tall one said. ‘Leave him alone.’

The couple headed towards them and Jay’s heart started beating – it was trouble. He took an imperceptible step back behind the bikes. The tall man pulled up and the fat man pointed with his burger.

‘I think he likes our bikes,’ he said.

‘Oh, will you stop doing this,’ the woman said. ‘Let him go.’

Jay remained still, his eyes moved from one man to the other. The fat man stopped chewing and glanced at him. It was suddenly silent and very tense.

The tall one started walking back to the shop. ‘Come on, Ned.’

‘Na, wait,’ Ned said. He looked at Jay and nodded at the shop. ‘Come inside, little fella,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll even let ya talk to the girl.’

Jay felt a surge of panic as he sat down at their table. He knew he should negotiate to leave but, such was the overwhelming presence of these men, especially of Ned, he dare not refuse the demand. He had no clue as to Ned’s intention – but it was clear that it wasn’t in his interest. He took the bottle of cola Ned had bought him and, after hesitating, began to sip the straw. Five or six bikers were talking amongst themselves at a table across the room. The tall man approached and threw a green packet onto the table.

‘Snapper says to buy your own,’ he mumbled. It was rolling tobacco and Ned reached out and opened it.

He looked up at Jay. ‘Do ya mind if I smoke?’ he said, straight-faced.

Jay was silent.

Ned smirked. ‘Hey, relax,’ he said, pushing a basket of fries across the table towards him. ‘Eat up.’

Jay glanced at the tall man then reluctantly took a chip. He slowly chewed and Ned glanced at him with amusement. He removed a small packet of papers from his pocket. He took a pinch of tobacco from the packet, sprinkled it onto the paper and began rolling his cigarette. Joe sat down at